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Carstairs grabbed Lady Brae’s hair, twisting it till she yelped. Like a doll, he dragged her, kicking and struggling all the while, across the floor by her hair towards the whimpering captives. Kneeling, Carstairs gazed at one of the captives, quelling his fear and mesmerizing him with his eyes. The helpless man bent his head aside, offering his throat to the True Blood. Carstairs opened the man’s neck with a slash of his nails. Dark blood spurt from the wound, running down the man’s clothes. But he did not move, even as his life was fleeing from him.

“Drink, cousin, and know what I know.” He pushed Lady Brae towards the dying man, trying to force her lips upon the wound. With all the strength remaining to her, Lady Brae struggled against Carstairs and the rising hunger within her. She’d spent so much of herself just getting here, she was so terribly, terribly hungry. But she’d never done this, never fed without consent, never drank the heart’s blood. Her fangs pushed forward in anticipation of the feast, while her eyes changed, the iris’ becoming the yellow-green of a hungry wolf. That little bit of her that was still herself cried out against this sacrilege and turned away, inches from the man’s neck.

“Drink, damn it, I said drink!” Carstairs shouted, gripping her jaw and forcing her head down on the crimson fountain.

Life and power surged within her. All her reluctance disappeared beneath the red wave. The captive crooned and sank into her as she savaged him, tearing deeper into his neck.

“Yes little cousin, that’s right, drink your fill. See what they would deny you? Never again,” Carstairs said, his own hunger rising at the sight of the feast.

“It’s madness, insanity. The Houses are pointing fingers at each other. Old slights have become the only incentive for duels and mobs. Gloomhaven is inches from a civil war. As goes Gloomhaven, so goes the Empire. At best, the Houses will link your activity back to us and our House will be destroyed to soothe the feathers you’ve ruffled. At worst, if enough blood is spilt, the Queen may rise and become involved. No one wants that!”

“I long since tired of being told what I cannot do, cousin. I do not think anyone will ever control me again.”

“We all have duties, even if they pain us,” Mr. Silver said. “None are so powerful that they escape that simple truth.”

“Oh really, warlock? Yes, I know what you are. Do you think that you and my cousin pursued me without being observed? What do you know of power and duty?” he demanded, his eyes ablaze with wrath. “Everything you have, all your magic is stolen or bargained for. You’ve not earned any of it. You dance with darkness for a glimpse of power. What right do you have to tell me what I can and cannot take?”

Mr. Silver said, “What I’ve done comes only at a cost to myself. What you are doing,” he waved his hand, indicating the bodies on the floor, “is murder.”

Carstairs kicked a corpse. “These people live and die to serve the monarchy. What does it matter if their death comes a bit earlier than normal? Besides,” he leered at Lady Brae, “it’s so intoxicating.” Continue reading →

“Judging from Duke Astor’s reactions and the antagonism between the Houses that seek to lay the blame at each other’s door; I’d guess our quarry wants a war. Already fingers are being pointed and accusations made. A nest of twenty or thirty wyghts released into someone’s territory might be all it takes to tip the balance into more bloodshed.”

With blinding speed, she caught the monster’s arm before its claws could touch her. “Unhand me, you brute,” she cried, twisting the wyght’s wrist. Bones popped like kindling and the creature let out a howl of pain as it dropped its prey. She was up from her crouch before it could turn away and grabbed it on both sides of its face. With its unbroken hand, it tried to pry loose her steely grip, but even its unnatural strength was no match for hers. The creature’s eyes were white with fear as she pulled it close.

“That was very rude. I love that parasol. I’ll probably never get it clean.”

The thing whimpered as it stared into her predatory eyes.

She twisted her hands, hard and sudden. The crack of the creature’s neck was like thunder.

As the wyght fell to the ground, she turned to Mr. Silver. He was pressed up against the wall, swinging his cane to and fro, trying to hold several of the creatures at bay.

“A little help, my lady!” he called out.

She grabbed two of the creatures by the remains of their clothes and pulled them back. One tried to slice her with a claw. She pivoted back, bending only at her waist, letting the claw pass overhead. Springing up, she caught the wyght on its overextended shoulder and, using its momentum, spun it all the way around into the wall. Bones cracked with the impact. As its knees gave out, she snapped a kick into the face of the other wyght as it lunged for her back.

Her heel plunged into its face, piercing the skull in the center of its forehead.

Turning back to the first, Lady Brae snapped its neck with a vicious twist. Then, with a snarl, she slammed her foot down on the neck of the one she’d kicked. It writhed on the ground, holding its bloodied face and trying to wriggle away. There was an audible crack as its neck broke, but she continued to grind down with her boot, smiling, as she felt the jagged bones moving underfoot.

The swinging pendulum, now tied to the handle of Mr. Silver’s outstretched cane, led them deep into the bowels of Gloomhaven. Ancient stone vaults, built by hands that had long since rendered to dust, loomed above their heads. The Oculatron’s light cast strange, shifting shadows upon the crumbling bricks and thick columns. Rats scurried away from this invasion of their ancestral territory. Following the ever tugging pendulum, they worked their way deeper into the sewers, twisting and turning through narrow and hidden passages, guided only by the warlock’s magic. Brick and mortar walls gave way to rough-hewn stones and architecture that was both older and stranger the further they ventured.

Though they saw and heard no others where they travelled, the signs of others’ passings were evident to them both; discarded modern refuse, fresh tracks, both boot prints and drag marks in mud and waste. There was even torn fragments of clothing, still mostly clean, to be found where it was no doubt ripped from a passing body.

A winding stair carved into the rock itself led them to a passage made entirely of some black, glossy stone that neither had seen before. Mr. Silver’s breath condensed in the cold air, but Lady Brae’s was nearly invisible. Here and there they saw strange characters cut into the walls, by minds curious and alien, judging from the bizarre script.

“What is this?” she asked, her voice quiet and reverent, her fingertips hovering over the writing.

Shaking his head, Marcus placed his hand on hers and pushed it down, away from the markings. “Gloomhaven is built on the carcass of many ancient civilizations. Undoubtedly our quarry hides beneath ruins from before the Empire, possibly before even the Queen herself. What better place to perform his secret and illegal deeds? At least we’re out of the sewers.” He stopped to study the spidery script. “It’s not Alfar, nor Duergar. I must admit, I’ve never seen its like before.”

In the blue light of the Oculatron, the script seemed to move. Marcus blinked, and everything returned to normal. He opened his mouth to speak, when Lady Brae silenced him.

“Did you hear that?” she asked, craning her neck.

He turned from the writing and listened to the darkness. There was no sound but the dripping of distant water. Then he heard it, a faint echoing out of the darkness.